


love you for a long time

by myssyx



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Black Paladin Lance (Voltron), Fluff as per usual, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, angst but only a little dw, keith using honesty to kill lance: "what? it's just the truth!", lance in denial, near death experiences ahaha, space mall!, space shenanigans cos duh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:48:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26229718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myssyx/pseuds/myssyx
Summary: “I’d give you everything, the whole universe, all of it,” Keith says, slightly slurred, hands flapping wildly with his arms still heavy over Lance’s shoulders.Lance laughs, bright and echoey off the castle’s walls, and gently directs them closer to the lounge.“Everything? Are you sure? Even Kosmo?”Keith falters momentarily and furrows his eyebrows, tilting his head to the side as if it’ll help him make the most serious decision ever. His seriousness stretches the smile on Lance’s face, and he can barely hold back a second wave of laughter.“Well...Or: 5 times Keith gives Lance everything, + 1 time Lance gave it back
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 59
Kudos: 228





	1. took me by surprise

**Author's Note:**

> ayyo i've always wanted to try those 5+1 things so here we go
> 
> title and related chapter titles are from maggie rogers' love you for a long time (<3)

It’s way after the welcoming party for another successful planet who’ve decided to join that Keith drops the bomb on him. 

Surprisingly, they’re the only two people in the ballroom, after Keith had also excitedly volunteered himself to stay back with Lance to clear things away, which was strange — not because he’d be with Lance, no, their days of antagonism were long behind them, but rather because all of them had expected him to retreat hours before, fed up with the party.

The flushed pink and mussed hair help explain it. Nobody had expected Keith to be such a lightweight, but it might have been something to do with his Galran genes. Either way, the Jojhian alcohol had been much more effective on him.

After Lance had tried to gather the rubbish away with little to no success, constantly thwarted by Keith’s attempts to show him the most mundane things such as the streamers hung poorly over the balcony, he’d given up. 

(“Lance, looook,” in awe.

“I am,” he’d replied, tiredly but endeared by Keith’s entrancement with what was just party decorations.

“They’re  _ glowing. _ ” Keith was still pointing at the streamers spiderwebbed across the balcony frame.

“Yeah. That’s what Altean streamers do. They glow.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re Altean.”

“Oh. Ok.”)

Now that Keith had Lance’s full attention, he’d proceeded to drag him around the room and shove random things into Lance’s hands. Anytime he put them aside after he tried putting back what looked like a sapphire earring one of the Jojhians had left behind, Keith glared at him until he picked it back up. Yup — out of all the things Keith could’ve retained when drunk, it was his intensely piercing glare.

So far, the stash was about to spill over Lance’s hands.

“Keith, I can’t carry anymore of this, uhh, stuff. It’s gonna drop, and then it’ll make a big mess everywhere. Can I, um, put it on the table? I promise I won’t forget it!”

Keith debates this, scrunching his nose up and pursing his lips. 

“Fine,” he says petulantly.

Lance exhales gratefully.

“Also, why are you giving me all these things?” he asks casually, placing them on the clothed table with care. The glint of a broken champagne glass winks back at him.

If Lance had known the response to the question, he doesn’t know whether he would’ve posed it.

“Lance.” 

The gravity of how Keith says his name catches his attention, and he swivels around to meet Keith’s darkened eyes. Like obsidian, right before the eruption.

Feeling transfixed by Keith’s sudden concentration, he stands still, and Keith vigorously walks up until they’re standing face to face. The weirdest cocktail of determined resolution and a brand of fondness Lance can’t place is etched into Keith, and he can’t help but crack a smile, halfway nervous, halfway pleased.

Keith suddenly loops his arms around Lance’s neck, and they stumble only a little bit.

He looks Lance, right in the eye, meeting Lance’s earthly pupils with his space stare, and — here comes the bomb. Here comes the eruption.

“I’d give you everything, the whole universe, all of it,” Keith says, slightly slurred, hands flapping wildly with his arms still heavy over Lance’s shoulders. His gaze is the kind of intense midnight that happens when he’s mid-battle, except it looks kind of different right now.

Lance doesn’t let himself dwell on how it looks brighter and dismisses it with a trick of the fluorescent lights.

Instead, he laughs, bright and echoey off the castle’s walls, and gently directs them closer to the lounge. 

“Everything? Are you sure?”

Keith nods so fervently like a string puppet gone mad that Lance immediately goes to cradle the nape of his neck. His unfairly soft hair skims the edges of Lance’s fingers.

“Even Kosmo?”

Keith falters momentarily and furrows his eyebrows, tilting his head to the side as if it’ll help him make the most serious decision ever. His seriousness stretches the smile on Lance’s face, and he can barely hold back a second wave of laughter.

“Well... maybe not Kosmo, but everything else!”

And maybe it is fishing, but nobody can blame the way Lance tries to see how far ‘everything’ truly goes.

“What about your knife?”

Keith immediately goes rigidly still in Lance’s arms, and Lance panics, amused smile slipping off and already scrambling to backtrack before Keith could potentially revert back three years and go into a hyper-protective mode over the blade, but before he hastily apologies, Keith steps back and starts patting his pants pockets down. 

“Keith?” Lance says, on the verge of frantic, and feels a strange ominous hope swoop up his stomach like cold champagne bubbles.

“Here, lemme...” 

With a triumphant hum and flourish, Keith pulls out The Knife, and presses it straight into Lance’s flailing hands. 

Even when drunk, he makes sure the blade is facing the other way; he makes sure not to hurt Lance.

“Keith, no no no don’t do that —” Lance jerkily switches between staring at the gleaming dark silver and purple reflection of the luxite blade, with it’s love-worn and fraying binding of the hilt and Keith, with his equally dazed but serious expression. 

Lance doesn’t want to think about the fact that Keith looks the same way his knife had, with the same amount of — (he blips out before he can start spelling the word, L—) 

“Keith, I can’t accept this, no no no please it’s way too special, you’re drunk —”

He pushes back, with his palms full of  _ family heirloom _ , but the most he gets is pressing it flat against Keith’s chest. Keith has each of his hands firmly wrapped around Lance’s wrists. 

They’re warm. 

Lance stops pushing back, partly in fear of nicking Keith through his shirt, but mostly because it’s futile against a determined Keith. 

Keith doesn’t let go, palms burning around his wrists.

“Lance.”

His voice is quiet, but firm, with that  _ something extra _ woven inside and later he’ll blame it on the Jojhian alcohol, but right now what can Lance do but look up? 

There’s that midnight gaze again, inky dark and unwavering. Lance can’t look away, pinned down by the sincerity of his eyes, his hands, his voice. 

“If it’s for you, it’s worth it.”

“Keith —”, voice breaking.

“I trust you.” 

Flickering his stare to track the minute changes in Lance’s expression, he seems to be searching for something in Lance’s coffee eyes. Whatever he was looking for, he finds it, and he relaxes, leaning even more of his weight on Lance.

“I trust you,” repeated again.

Lance’s eyes soften, and he unclenches his hand around the handle of Keith’s knife, just enough that it isn’t a death grip anymore. 

Unloosening.

“I trust you too,” he says, almost raspy.

Keith hums, and his mouth twitches into a small but meaningful, always meaningful smile. It goes a little dopey as the moment stretches on for longer, and Lance is reminded of his inebriation. 

“But I just, I don’t really think I should have it,” Lance tries to reason softly, wincing slightly as Keith’s eyebrows start to furrow. 

“It’s so special to you, especially because of your mum, and I don’t really deserve to keep something like this, and — and, you’re drunk, yep, I hope you haven’t forgotten, so I think you should just…” 

Lance awkwardly presents the knife back, palms up, held aloft in the small space between their bodies. Meanwhile, Keith’s eyebrows have fully knitted together in confused frustration. As adorable as it may be, Keith does a hurdle between a groan and a sigh, shoulders dropping down more. With the most exasperated smile on this side of the galaxy, Keith clasps the outstretched palms with both hands, squeezes lightly, and holds on. 

If he does any more of this constant hand-holding, Lance isn’t going to live for much longer. He’s not sure how much he can take right now, being totally transparent.

“Lance.”

(It’s the way Keith says his name, held between his teeth like a prayer he doesn’t want to let go of)

He shivers.

“Lance Lancelance _ lancelance _ ,” he adds on, slurring at the end and shakily smiling wider, seemingly loving how his teeth and tongue curl around the syllable.

Lance tries to hold on, with Keith’s warm palm like a roof over their home of hands and the precious blade. He tries to be steadier, and funnily enough, he’s the one that’s supposed to be sober.

“Yeah?” 

He whispers it, dry and hesitant.

“ _ I trust you _ .”

“Why do you keep — agh, you keep, repeating it, I just. Please stop,” he tacks on weakly. 

Keith barrels on, ever one to ignore commands, especially when this one was barely an instruction.

“So, I know that you’ll keep it safe. And I Want. You. To. Have. It,” he punctuates, pressing slightly harder into the flat of the blade each time.

“Are you sure? —”

Lance gets cut off for the millionth time tonight by Keith’s pseudo-annoyance, this time with a slew of curses.

“Shit, I really can’t make it clearer. Don’t you see, Lance?” he pleads, leaning in even more that the backs of Lance’s knees hit the lounge.

His nose is just a scant few centimetres in front of Lance’s, as he hovers with his semi- dishevelled hair framing his glittering eyes.

“I’d give you anything, everything, if you asked,” Keith says, clear and easy and earnest. “And I’d want to give you it anyways, even if you don’t. So keep the knife. It’ll make me feel better, too.”

Lance breathes in. And out. And then does it again, but he doesn’t think he’ll recover from this for a long time. Maybe forever. 

He gives in.

“Okay. Okay, Keith. I’ll keep it for you,” Lance finally responds, and Keith fucking beams, and the bright smile he receives for it, even brighter than the red of his cheeks, is worth whatever responsibility he has now over one of Keith’s most precious possessions.

And then, promptly as Keith makes sure Lance is properly holding it, he collapses and passes out on him. Lance almost buckles underneath the sudden weight, but he manages to pull him up and carry his dead weight to his room. The ballroom is still a cacophony of spilled alcohol glasses and dangling, limp streamers, but he’ll deal with that later.

After he tucks Keith in, the wrinkly sheets tucked just under his chin, Lance smooths back his dark hair from his forehead. 

He fights the urge to lean in, and then to —

Lance jerks back, and clutches the knife tightly in his pocket. He almost puts it back, swallowed with fear that Keith will have forgotten by tomorrow, but he doesn’t. There’s a phantom force in the shape of Keith’s warm, rough, palms, and his big smile that’s keeping him from giving it back.

When he heads out of the room and into his own next door, it’s another battle he just only wins not to look back at Keith with his words that destroy him in an entirely different way. It’s worse, and better.

* * *

Just a few hours later, as he wakes up with the slightest headache, he rubs his eyes and scans the room as per trained instincts. His eyes snag on something bright on his nightstand.

The luxite blade,  _ Keith’s  _ luxite blade, sits there, almost innocuously. Like it’s mocking him.

“Fuck,” he groans, and it goes garbled with his face buried in his hands.

Those treacherous hands, those eyes, those words.

“Fuck.”


	2. lost so deep inside your diamond eyes // still think about that moment all of the time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _How do you forget something like that?_

It’s been three days of pure torture on Lance’s end.

Ever since Keith got drunk and then proceeded to hand him _his Marmoran knife_ , nothing’s happened. No fights, no storm offs, no dramatic confessions (although Lance has truly had enough these past few days). Nothing.

That’s what was so torturous: initially, Lance had waited in fear that Keith would eventually recover from his hangover, confront him about it and probably ask for the knife back. And then stop talking to him for a minimum of three years out of embarrassment. Maybe five years? Yeah, five.

But if anything, Keith has been his usual business self — that is, he still bickers incessantly with Lance about the number of bots they’d wipe out:

(" _I had the last one!”_

_“Nope, didn’t see it so it doesn’t count.”_

_“There’s literally a gash down its side. You know, because I have a sword?”_ ),

he’s still infuriatingly gorgeous:

(" _I’m not blind, isn’t beauty like objective anyways?”_

 _“... Bro.”_ ), 

and at the boring diplomatic dinner last night they’d made increasingly fucked up funny faces at each other across the table until the toddler prince had burst into tears citing how scary they’d looked:

( _“I bet it was your flared nostrils and scrunched up mouth that made him cry.”_

_“Shut your fuck Keith, he definitely burst into tears after you flipped your eyelids inside out.”_

_“Oh yeah, that one was great.”_ ).

You know. The usual.

So naturally, if McMullet isn’t willing to talk about it himself, maybe he can just. Never bring it up. Then nothing will happen. Right?

Then, maybe they can put the moment aside as just a small drunk misunderstanding and carry on in life, as usual, fighting against imperialistic purple koala cats on steroids with telepathic colour coded robot lions. The usual.

He contemplates this hesitantly as he subtly redirects Black to head more left, towards the approaching fuschia planet. The hologram calls it RX-1836.

But how?

How do you forget something like that?

It wasn’t just the words, although those themselves in the achingly open and raspy voice, deepened with alcohol and the late hour had dealt a great number on him. 

It was in his eyes, like how space was always expanding and almost infinite, like stardust and faith and blacked out midnights: beautifully engulfing and always holding truth.

And what about his hands too? How they held intention and deliberation with the way he pressed the blade into Lance’s trembling hands — once, for assurance, and then holding on for the promise: I said the words, and with my hands on yours I vow to keep it. 

It wasn’t just the words; in another time he’d have said the same things, perhaps teasingly so and they’d both have laughed it off, but here Lance is, struck by the echo of how Keith bored into him with his charcoal eyes, stripped his soul bare, and then handed it over for Lance to keep.

Lance isn’t stupid. He can figure it out, do the math.

Even if they don’t talk about it, he can’t forget this. It’ll haunt him for the rest of time but he’ll manage. He has to, or else they’d both die of embarrassment post 2am confession hour. He’s just adjusting, cut him some slack, man.

It’d definitely be easier if he had someone to tell, though. 

Hunk is the greatest best friend in the world, their synchronisation is so in tune that the moment Lance had stepped into the kitchen the first morning looking like he’d seen a ghost, he’d gone “Keith?”, and Lance had nodded, desperately not wanting to elaborate any more. 

He’d vehemently deny being in — (let’s start again, shall we? L-O—) with him though, despite all of Hunk’s protests. He likes Keith and can admit that he’s quite attractive. Keith’s one of the most important people in his life, and he values their friendship more than anything, so ruining it would devastate them. 

He’s taking one for the team.

Lance can see the disapproving jut of Hunk’s chin and the raised judgement in Pidge’s eyebrow now, despite them being nowhere near each other right now. Pidge headed off to a specialised techie planet to find some parts for the outdated castle and Hunk had already arrived at the Space Mall by invitation of Sal opening a new branch. 

Right now, he has other things to worry about. 

Like how he’ll get through the next two hours alone with Keith, seeing as they were placed on shopping duty this time since everyone else was busy with telecomming various potential planets seeking alliances. 

Keith had grinned at him from across the room when Shiro had listed their jobs of the day, and usually, Lance would have stuck his tongue out in response, but this time he settled for an awkward tight-lipped smile. Sometimes he was happy that Keith was such an oblivious guy — if it had been any other person they’d clearly know Lance was acting weird.

( _“You’re weird all the time, Lance.”_

_“Says you, you cropped jacket-wearing Pokémon trainer wannabe ass with the knockoff teleporting Noctolf.”_

_“I keep saying it! Kosmo is not a knockoff fucking ice wolf! And how is that an insult, Pokémon is a classic!”_

_“You’re exempt from its coolness, duh.”_

_“That’s not how that works!”_ )

As time passed, his paranoia was made increasingly evident — to the point where Shiro, ever the uncaring bitch who once unironically shouted #YOLO when his jet pack had malfunctioned (in training, thankfully) and the current cardholder of Overlord of Obliviousness, something he’d clearly passed onto Keith, was beginning to notice.

He’d asked Lance twice already if he had been feeling alright, if he was homesick, etcetera. And what could Lance say? _“Oh, sorry, your little brother just frickin obliterated my entire perspective of the trust and friendship between us and we’re not functioning people so we haven’t said anything to each other about it.”_

Yeah, nah.

He’d have to go with the classic homesick excuse, although it was always a partial truth all the time anyways.

If Shiro asked again when he was acting up and blurting out the stupidest shit to not spend more than ten minutes in a room with Keith, especially not alone, like “having to feed my, uh, pet cat some fuel?”, and he still wasn’t back to normal, Shiro would get Allura to stage an Intervention which was really just an awkward talk of Bad feelings that usually devolved into interplanetary gossip. Which wasn’t bad, per se, but he was more scared of Allura.

Recently, Hunk and Allura have teamed up to somehow sense whenever Lance was Going Through It™ so he wouldn’t be burdened by his homesickness and generally being wrapped up in his own head too much, which was really sweet, except Allura had developed the unfortunate ability to weasel out whatever was on his mind by just a Look.

And he does _not_ want to share this with anyone. So suffer it is.

Fun.

So fun.

“Preparing to land on RX-1836. Conditions are clear,” Keith cuts in over the comms, jolting Lance back to his current dilemma. 

“Right — copy that,” he responds jerkily, and then let his forehead _thunk_ on the tinted helmet glass, groaning.

God. What a long two hours this would be.

* * *

“Okay, what else do we need? I just grabbed the shampoo and detergent capsules,” Lance says, selecting the bubbly green and blue icons on the hovering catalogue.

The metal panel in front of him slides open and deposits the two capsules neatly into the waiting trolley basket before sliding shut again. 

Ah, the wonders of alien technology. You didn’t even have to lift an arm.

Crackling into his earpiece, Keith and his staticky voice speaks.

“Uh, actually, I’m stuck in this stupid thing again.” A pause. “Stop laughing, you asswipe! It is _not_ my fault that it doesn’t let you just grab it.”

“ _Keith_. Buddy. My man,” Lance manages to choke out, about to go into hysterics over episode no. 2784 of Keith forgetting that the generic superstores they go to have automatic trolley systems that, you know, do the heavy lifting for you. 

“You know it’s to stop shoplifting, right? Also, aisle?”

“It’s not like I’m gonna steal a package of… Trooberdizzle’s Terrific Towels. What _is_ up with these names? I swear the guy was called Trudy last time,” Keith mutters, and unsuccessfully tries to pull himself free again. “I’m in aisle 9.”

After Keith gets his wrist free from the metal cage when Lance comes to his rescue, but of course not without taking a few pictures of an indignant Keith to send to the team first, they decide to grab the rest of the things together lest Keith gets himself stuck again.

When they check out and Lance looks at the time, he sighs in relief. They’d only spent an hour gathering everything on the list instead, and now, they could probably leave before they had to spend any real time hanging out aka Lance humiliating himself, seeing as on immediate entry into the mall Lance had loudly suggested that they “split up to divide and conquer”. 

Keith had shrugged and thought nothing of it, but he couldn’t use his excuse now. 

“We should head back now,” Lance says, and turns back to find the space next to him completely Keith-less.

“When I said I wanted to avoid him, this is _not_ what I meant,” he grumbles under his breath, and then comms in to ask Keith where he’d disappeared off to.

“I’m in this shop,” Keith says, like it’s an explanation. 

“Wow. Really narrows it down, dude.”

He can feel Keith rolling his eyes right now.

“Ugh. You didn’t let me finish — it’s like this, uh, Earth shop? Except it doesn’t have any touristy souvenir stuff from Earth, but there’s this whole pile of other alien junk in here that looks like key rings and shit. It’s called Terran Treasures.”

“O-Kay,” Lance replies, popping the K, and finds the store just a couple metres down. 

Keith wasn’t joking when he said it looked like a typical sketchy souvenir shop. The glittery store name is almost completely peeled off the smudged window front, the letters completely rubbed off leave a sticky imprint and the surviving name: 

T r e es.

At least, that’s what the visual translator reads.

Inside, Lance finds it lit only at the back, where a shabby looking counter and what looks like if Venice, New York City, and Bali had collaborated to dump all of their souvenirs into one big, plasticky, pile. If dragons weren’t so uppity about the quality of their gold and glitter, this would’ve been like heaven for them.

The disappearer himself stands there fiddling with what looks like a wind-up toy, twisting the handle vigorously. Lance steps up next to him, glancing at the contraption Keith’s messing with. It looks like a hippo, if hippos had babies with tigers and wings to boot. 

Lance snorts. Trust Keith to find this kind of stuff.

He looks at the rest of the oddities and finds the usual things: Curiously, a stack of thick papery off-white stock cards beckon him from the pile. Lifting one off the pile, he finds preset lines drawn across the surface, and when he flips it, there’s a glowing sunset that beckons him with glittering waters necking the shore and the shadows of three suns at the lip of the horizon. 

The water is deep purple, and the sand appears black, which is a reminder that this isn’t actually Earth and definitely not the Varaderan Coastline, but it’s enough to make him go speechless.

Somehow, there is a universal truth that rules the tides and water: where there is water in reach of a sun, it shall be kissed by sunlight so deeply that stars themselves are born on the foam, glittering, gleaming, glinting. 

Here is a wave, crashing over. 

Here it hugs the shore, whispering to come back.

Here it fulfils its promise, sweeping back and embracing it again.

Lance would like to think that he is a wave too. Maybe not purple, but he’s malleable. He would like to think that one day, when the water finally breaks and tips over, that he can come back to his blood family because he promised. He promised.

It’s close to trembling but not quite, the slow way he picks up the pile and sifts through the rest of the postcards, images burned deep into his memory. More pictures of the same beach, but at different parts of the day — midnight, with the moon like a pale cut bleeding light into the sky, noon, and he can almost see through the glowing translucent purple, daybreak too. 

After his memory has made matrimony with the pictures and he sets the pile down, knowing that he can’t buy the postcards anyways. The last time they received pocket money was months ago, before Allura rightfully decided to place the money in restoration funds instead. It’s gift enough to see children afforded some remnant of safety after the awful, _awful_ brutalisation of the Galra. 

It’s enough, but sometimes, and with great guilt, he wishes that he could have more for himself too.

Sighing, he turns to Keith.

He doesn’t expect it, caught off guard so badly from his emergence from a wave of nostalgia.

Keith is looking at him strangely, and Lance barely suppresses the flush crawling up his neck as he wonders _how long?_

_How long were you looking?_

There it is again, that unplaceable twinkle in his eyes. Lance thinks of the dark diamond shores, thinks that they could be emblazoned in Keith’s eyes and he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. 

He doesn’t look away until Lance hesitantly calls out his name, watching as he blinks away the intensity. Lance won’t address it. He can’t.

“Right — I think we should head off. We’ve still got to put our stock in the inventory,” Lance says, shocked at how rough his voice is. 

Keith blinks.

“Um, actually, I’m going to hang back for a bit. I want to check out something —uh, I’ll catch you at the main entrance,” Keith says sheepishly, switching his weight between his legs. 

And Lance was worried about acting weird himself! 

“Sure, you weirdo. See you in ten ticks,” Lance responds, not without a raised eyebrow and an exaggerated side-eye, and then ambles out of the store.

* * *

After dinner, which mainly consists of the team making fun of Keith getting stuck in the panels again, especially Shiro, they head off to do their own shit. They all have designated routines with minor tweaks if need be; it helps with staying sane, being the universe’s best saviours in a ten thousand year long war and all that.

Keith reads in the lounge or trains.

Hunk engineers, experiments with new ingredients, or both at the same time.

Pidge enjoys gaming and working on their own coding projects, most of which go to castle functioning. Sometimes Lance joins in for a game of Killbot Phantasm and usually loses, but even bearing the brunt of Pidge’s bragging and shit-talking is kinda nice — it makes them feel more like the teenagers they’re meant to be.

Shiro either meditates, falls asleep meditating, or is found eating all the delicious food Hunk makes.

Allura and Coran are the hardest to pin down. 

Allura is usually on the Observatory Deck making calls to other planets, or having a small night to pamper herself, but sometimes the paladins find her hanging precariously in various locations. Shiro screamed like a banshee when he found her dangling upside down by her legs in a storage closet, casually just chatting with the mice, but he’ll deny it every time.

She says it’s good for circulation.

The paladins politely just… let her be.

Coran is always noting down something or arranging a surprise that all the team gets to see when it’s finished. He’s done a couple of space operas and plays, and Lance will admit, after the whole brain worm debacle, his skills as a playwright have gotten much better, and Coran beams at the praise.

Lance himself returns to his room to get ready for an early night and goes through the stages of his nighttime skin routine. He pointedly ignores the presence of the silvery shape on his nightstand. 

On other days, he swims too, but not today. There’s been _way_ too much happening over the past few days.

Washing his face with the cleanser Allura gave him to test try, a knock sounds from the door.

“Hold on!” 

He pats his face dry and opens the door to reveal — 

“Oh. Keith?” he asks, hoping to high heavens that the guy won’t pick up on his sudden panic.

Maybe this is it. Keith will ask for the knife back, he’ll awkwardly hand it over, and then they’ll avoid each other like the plague. _Five years_ , his brain unhelpfully supplies.

“Yeah. I... have something for you,” Keith announces, standing awkwardly in the door frame, bathed by the soft glow of the corridor’s lights. His hands are clasped tightly behind his back, stretching the black of his shirt tightly across his chest. Lance quickly averts his eyes.

Before Lance can say anything, Keith brandishes a white blurry shape that he rapidly shoves into Lance’s hands, retracting them as quickly as he came. 

Peering down at whatever Keith just slapped inside his hands, he gasps.

They’re the postcards from the space mall.

Liquid lightning strikes up his spine, and he carefully looks through the cards despite his sudden shaky hands. Keith bought the entire pile. Shades of purple, black, red, and others greet him again through different times of day.

“Look, you don’t have to accept this at all, I just got them for you because you seemed to really like them, and Shiro said that you were feeling a bit homesick so I thought it would uhh — help a bit,” Keith rambles, hastily running his hands through his hair, and if Lance weren’t so emotionally incapacitated right now, he’d notice that it looked much messier than usual (if it were possible) like he’d spent ages deciding what to do.

“I hope you like them,” he finishes off, crookedly smiling in nervousness to reveal tiny dimples indented in his cheeks, which are turning redder by the moment.

A maelstrom of awe, affection and reverence balloons in his core, travelling upwards and making his mouth cottony.

“ _Keith._ ” 

It’s all he can utter. 

Names are powerful.

They’re powerful in the way they hold meaning, the way that the holder defines what it means, like how a friend’s name represents who they are to their core, and also in the way that in the mouths of others, it can uncover how they see each other. 

When Lance says his name, he hopes what he meant is understood. Keith immediately shudders. Lance can only hope that he understands with how surprise unveils across his face, rippling.

He throws his hands around Keith’s shoulders and profusely babbles out his thanks, you’re the best, I _love_ them, you’re a fool if you think I’m not gonna keep them. For a few seconds, Keith doesn’t do anything, until he hesitantly raises his arms and hands to return the hug, rubbing soothing circles over his back.

With his chin tucked snugly into Keith’s shoulder, he whispers the question that’s been gradually looming over the back of his mind: “Why? You didn’t need to, you know.”

Keith pulls back and settles one of his hands on Lance’s shoulder, and with the other, he cups his jaw, palm heavy and warm, all while staring at him with his midnight diamonds. He doesn’t relent. With his thumb, he gently brushes under Lance’s eye, wiping away a tear. 

Lance didn’t even know he’d been crying. 

“I know. But I wanted to. And, well —” he pauses, and briefly avoids eye contact, embarrassed, before coming straight back — “I did say I’d give you everything, didn't I?”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Here’s the drop.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The balloon, popping.

  
  
  
  
  


The storm of intensified affection, gratitude, and euphoria implodes within him, a silent firework.

Lance’s jaw would have dropped, if it weren’t for Keith’s palm cradling it. 

Red races up his skin like dye in water. 

Eyes, widened.

“I didn’t think you remembered that,” Lance says, and like a camera wheel he reels back through the past three days with the knowledge that Keith had remembered his promise, even when drunk.

But — Keith had acted completely normal. 

He’d said something groundbreaking and then proceeded to be his usual self, with all the witty banter, all the bravado in his sparring, everything.

“I don’t — why didn’t you tell me?” Lance asks perplexedly, having been so ready to just ignore it as best as he could and go forth. 

“I… didn’t really know how to bring it up in normal conversation?” Keith shrugs, and then clears his throat. “Besides. I don’t know what else to say. It was the truth, so I didn’t need to say anything else.”

He says it like he’s commenting on his proficiency with swords: so honest, humble, and to the point that he can’t even recognise his own sheer competency.

As a child growing up with four nosy siblings, he’d essentially learnt that honesty could kill you, especially when the parents were involved. 

Lance has never heard of being killed with honesty like this.

“.... You’re killing me, dude.”

“Please don’t call me dude right now.”

“Sure, bro.”

“Ugh.”

Laughing lightly, he moves the hand grasping the postcards from behind Keith’s neck and glimpses a dark sunrise.

“Also, how?”

“Hmm?

“How did you even afford them? We haven’t gotten spending money in ages,” he says, then gasps for dramatic effect. “Keith Kogane, paladin of the honourable and glorious Red lion, did you _steal_ them?”

“What?! I didn’t steal them, I bought them with my own GAC. I haven’t bought anything in months, nothing really… caught my eye, I guess,” Keith says, lifting the hand on Lance’s shoulder to gesture in a roundabout whatever way.

“You used your savings from _months_ to buy them?” Lance shrieks indignantly, forgetting that it’s night time. 

Keith frowns and knits the slant of his eyebrows together. 

“Uh, yeah? That’s what I just said.”

“You shouldn’t have spent it on me!”

“It was worth it. Unless you don’t want them?” Keith asks, suddenly apprehensive. 

Lance wrenches out from Keith’s hold just to hold the postcards protectively to his chest. 

“No way, I definitely want them! You can’t take them back,” Lance proclaims, with his chin tilted upwards like a challenge. As if Keith would take away anything that made Lance happy.

“Okay,” Keith agrees easily, and smiles again, crooked. It’s extremely effective in getting Lance’s heartbeat up. Shit, he might not even need cardio if Keith just continues to be dashingly charming (uh, always) around him too much.

“Well, I’m gonna head off now,” Keith says, tilting his thumb back towards the corridor. 

“Wait!”

“Lance?”

“I still —” Lance hesitates, before pointing to his bedside table with the blade sitting peacefully there — “I still have your knife. Do you, uh, want it back?” Lance asks, and waits for the answer as he fiddles with the texture of the cards, nervous.

“No. It’s yours to keep, Lance. I meant what I said,” Keith response, voice deeper, hooking Lance again with the half-lidded darkness of his pupils.

If Lance’s mouth goes dry, that’s for no one else to know.

“Alright,” he barely bites out, and musters the mental capacity to smile back.

“Thank you again, Keith. It really does mean a lot,” he says, and waves the stack for extra emphasis.

“I’m glad,” is all Keith says, and then leaves, visibly smiling so wide that Lance sees a flash of white as he turns.

The doors slide close automatically, sensing that there’s no longer someone standing there.

Taking the opportunity to finally act batshit where no one can judge him, he hollers and races to the bathroom to check his complexion. His tan skin is stained deep rose, the vintage sepia kind. He looks dazed and lightheaded and feels the part too.

Before he places the postcards in the box of memorabilia stored underneath his bed that’s designated for his family, he pulls one out and sits at the edge of his bed, postcard flipped to show the blank lines waiting to be filled.

With a pen he stole from Coran years ago, the same pen that he sometimes writes updates in his journal with, he clicks it open and then pauses, pen hovering over the card.

He inhales deeply.

Then exhaling, he begins.

 _Dear Ma,  
_ _There’s this boy..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's number 2 of 5!
> 
> im loving writing this i get to shove so many tropes in here just cos i can!!  
> also wanted to take a different route where they actually remember what they did when they were drunk so this'll be interesting!
> 
> as usual thanks for reading, please drop a kudos/comment if you enjoyed it, it's really uplifting for me as the author <3


	3. i felt the fever and i knew it was mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I’d wish you’d been here to see him get here, like I did. And maybe see me too, grow with him. With him, things feel inevitable and endless. I’ve touched the stars because of him, Ma._

Okay, so here’s the thing: if you were given the god-ordained blessing to have literally anything you wanted suddenly granted, like a genie snapping their fingers, and there were virtually no terms and conditions, you would use it as much as you could, wouldn’t you?

“That is _not_ what I meant when I said that,” Keith cuts in, fully exasperated with Lance’s antics. He parries a blow from Lance, then extends the sword into an opening near his front, almost skimming the edge of Lance’s tank top. 

“You literally said that you’d give me anything if I asked. What else could it mean!” Lance squawks, and then blocks Keith’s attempts to shred his top, the engaged swords creating one of the universe’s worst sounds — screeching metal. 

Keith rolls his eyes.

They both don’t relent until Keith decides to remove the pressure altogether by stepping back, and Lance almost topples over, saved by his agile footwork. 

“You can’t ask me to just carry all of your responsibilities! Doing something is _not_ giving something, that’s totally different,” Keith shouts, equally invested in ducking to avoid Lance’s offensive as he is in the trivial argument.

“It’s the same thing! You had to buy the postcards to give them to me, that’s a doing thing,” Lance argues, impassioned, and quickly switches the broadsword into his right hand, and watches with a thin smirk as Keith’s eyes widen, clearly not anticipating the move.

Using Keith’s confusion to his advantage, he immediately dives in. Lance would have succeeded in cutting down his shirt if it weren’t for Keith’s inhuman instincts, and their swords lock in again.

“That’s — agh, just because I had to do something to give you it doesn’t mean that I have to do things for you!”

“So you’re saying that you _wouldn’t_ do things for me?” Lance asks, smiling wildly as their swords push against each other, fully aware that he’s being a little dipshit right now. 

Sue him! It’s cute to see Keith like this, full of life over the stupidest things.

It gets the anticipated reaction: Keith narrows his glare and scowls, sweat gathering near his brow, but not before muttering something that Lance barely catches over the din of adrenaline and metal on metal.

“I’d do anything for you, if you wanted.”

Expectedly, Lance glitches, immediately easing his force on the hilt. 

“ _What?!_ ”

This time, Keith grins, almost feral, and disarms Lance, black and ivory metal wheeling metres away. He sweeps his foot round, and Lance’s legs buckle — he falls backwards gracelessly and lands on his back with an _oof_.

Lance stares up at the ceiling, feeling utterly betrayed by his stupid brain. 

In his peripheral vision, Keith sits down near his side.

“You cheated, you little bitchass rat,” he groans, covering his mortifyingly red face with his hand.

“I absolutely did not. This little bitchass rat won fair and square. But you’re definitely getting better — how long have you been able to switch sides?”

“Uhh, for a couple of weeks now. After the bayard changed form, I was like, I can already dual wield my guns, so hey, why not? Might as well be ambidextrous in both. I’m not that good but I’ve been working on it with ‘Lura. 

He peeked a glance at Keith through the gaps of his fingers and was met with the sight of Keith staring back at him, something like warm admiration glazing his dark eyes alongside the faint sheen of sweat. 

Lance squeezes his eyes shut, hoping Keith hadn’t noticed.

“That’s amazing. I could try and teach you some more if you wanted to?” Keith offers, and then quickly adds: “I don’t want to intrude on your time with Allura, I just thought I could give you some tips.”

Beaming, Lance removes his hand. 

“Actually, that’d be pretty awesome. Allura’s great with most weapons except for a cannon, but knives aren’t really her specialty.”

“Okay. Cool,” Keith nods, and then stands up, extending his hand towards Lance. Lance lets himself get pulled up and they both gather their swords, leaving to hit the showers after those three intensive hours.

“Do you think there’s anything in the kitchen?” Lance asks, alerted by the grumbling complaint of his stomach.

Keith pulls back his heavy hair to wipe the sweat off his forehead. “I saw Shiro pass by with a plate of Credesson kebabs a while back?”

“God, I’m fucking starving. If we get there and there’s none left because Pidge and Shiro have eaten them all, I’m blaming you.”

“How am I to blame? You’re the one with the insanely long shower routine.”

“Hey, you’re not exempt from this either — you spend _ages_ in the shower with the water basically at boiling point. I have no idea how your skin isn’t dying, you should be a prune by now.”

“Ugh. The highest heat setting is _not_ boiling point, it’s the perfect temperature.”

“Sure, buddy.”

They round the corner, and without warning, Keith turns to Lance, a devious smile in check.

“Race you to the showers in 3 2-1 go!” Keith suddenly shouts, dashing through the corridor as fast as he can with Lance furiously hot on his heels.

“Fuck you Kogane! You got a head start!”

“Says who, there’re no witnesses!”

“Oh, you motherfucking — get back here!”

Peals of laughter and the scuffling of soles on the slippery floors ring colourfully through the corridors, as well as the sound of what could be a concerning fight if the team wasn’t so used to this shit, from the pushing and shoving to the occasional string of heavy swearing.

It’s an average day. 

Maybe it’s better than usual.

Lance, in the middle of trying (failing) to stuff Keith into a headlock, doesn’t wonder why.

He knows.

* * *

_His name is Keith. Yes, ma. He’s the same one that I used to rant to you guys all about — but I’m not writing to complain, as much as I’m sure you’d love to hear it. I’m not complaining at all._

* * *

It’s chore day. It’s also the worst day of the week, except for the gruelling battles they undergo. 

Everyone stands in the lounge as Coran accounts for the jobs that need to be completed — it's a rotating schedule with a few tweaks depending on whatever part of the fossil of their castle has stopped functioning, but they manage. Doesn’t mean that they won’t complain all the way through.

“Allura, you’re on armoury organisation. We’re missing a few spears though, I’m not sure where they went, so we’ll have to find them as well,” Coran announces, twiddling with his bright orange moustache.

Lance, Pidge, and Hunk pointedly look away. No one will be able to find them, that’s for sure.

(“ _Wait wait wait, hold on, guys, if we somehow rig the cannon to shoot out spears, we could use it for long-distance attacks!”_

_“Pidge. That sounds like the best idea ever. We have to try it,” Hunk affirms, the two of them dissolving into technical jargon as Lance goes to the armoury to fetch a pile of spears._

_By the time they’re one, they’ve broken seven spears and hit only two targets — it isn’t that it doesn’t work, unfortunately, they just can’t get the force of the cannon right._

_Shamefully and in panic when they realise that they’ve gone through around half of the spears supply, they dispose of their creation in the garbage disposer, accompanied by Pidge hurriedly shoving the thing down the chute while Lance and Hunk take vigilant watchdog to make sure no one comes around.)_

Coran goes on and on, assigning each reluctant paladin their chores, and when Lance gets his designated job, he makes a dramatic fuss of it, _where’s-your-manager_ comments and all, to the confusion of Coran ( _"_ _Lance, I don’t understand, I don’t have a manager?”_ ), but everyone knows he’ll do the chores.

Suddenly, like the biggest lightbulb going off, Lance turns to Keith, who just got assigned to clean the kitchen. Lucky fucker, as if it isn’t clean already, it’s a kitchen for god’s sake.

“Keith,” he starts off, attempting to bat his eyelashes as if it’ll have any effect on Keith’s judgement.

(It does, but Lance doesn’t need to know.)

“No.” 

Keith doesn’t even turn sideways. He knows what Lance is doing, with those golden coffee eyes.

“You didn’t even hear what I had to say!”

“I know you were going to try to swap chores. I’m not stupid, cleaning the quarantine chamber is awful. I’m sticking with the kitchen,” Keith says smugly, still looking straight ahead.

“Okay, fine, but how ‘bout I offer you this sweet, sweet, deal. You help me clean the chamber and we’ll scrub the kitchen down together,” Lance advertises, gesturing between them.

“Pass,” Keith responds instantly, finally swivelling round to face Lance. “Cleaning the kitchen by itself is better than dealing with the chamber any day.”

Lance scowls, because it’s the truth; nobody wants to touch the chamber. The worst part of it isn’t the room itself, but rather all the compartments that they have to clean out to ensure it runs smoothly. And since it’s a quarantine chamber — well. 

The dirt and other unidentifiable shit that piles up stays in a horrid safe box all week until chore day comes around, mainly because of potential hazards with contamination and mixing with the general garbage. It’s a nightmare for anyone involved.

However, Lance has a wild card that he’s fully set on using till its limit and beyond.

“Hey… I remember what a little birdy told me a fortnight ago,” Lance says, sickeningly sweet and very much falsified innocence.

Keith doesn’t register it yet and raises an eyebrow.

Lance continues, swinging an arm around Keith’s shoulder. “I think they said something about giving me anything if I asked?” 

The little birdy in question immediately groans and slaps himself in the face, and Lance cackles, bringing his free hand up in a phone symbol near his ear.

“I’m calling it in right now, thank you very much,” he laughs. As much as Keith is glaring at him, his mouth closing and open as he finds the words to retort, he doesn’t untangle himself from Lance’s arm. Internally, Lance celebrates, because it means that he isn’t that averse to the suggestion even if he pretends to hate it on the outside. 

“We’ve been over this!” Keith shouts, loud enough to garner the attention of the rest of the team who’ve been chatting amongst themselves. Paying them no mind, Lance chuckles, toothy smile refusing to resign. “Doing something isn’t the same as giving something, they’re two different things!” he says, wildly gesticulating to make his point.

“Okay, but you can give me actions, can’t you?” Lance inquires, ever the master of finding loopholes. Eye twitching, Keith sputters, “That’s — what? That’s not a thing, that’s just doing something!”

“You can give someone something by doing it, and if it’s not a thing, well I’m making it a thing!”

“What the fuck? Eat shit, you can’t just make it a thing by saying it, that is not how anything works!”

“I’ll make _you_ eat shit, how about that?”

On the sidelines, Pidge and Hunk face each other wearing the same unimpressed look. 

“Hunk,” Pidge says, completely monotone.

“Yes?” he replies, knowing exactly what the other will say.

“Would you like to check through inventory with me? Afterwards, we can clean the observation deck as well.”

Hunk stifles his incoming giggle, and nods solemnly. “That would be splendid,” he says, and then the two of them crack their façade to bend over laughing, looking over at the bickering pair who’ve now descended into wrestling on the ground. 

Looping their arms and prancing out of the room, Hunk asks Pidge if they should alert the two that they still have chores to get to. None of the team would be surprised if they finished all their individual responsibilities to come and see them still playfully arguing hours later.

Pidge grins sort of unhinged, and casually waves their hand. “Nah,” they say. “Just let them be.”

* * *

_Keith has a heart of gold. I don’t think he thinks so, but he does. You’ll understand when you meet him. It’s the way he’s always there and laughing with us even though he has to be serious most of the time. He’ll act like he’s sick of it, but then he’ll join in. It’s definitely something, I’ll tell you that._

* * *

Lance scrubs down at a particularly stubborn spot of unknown substance no. 14 when he hears the unmistakable drag of the bucket and mop.

“You are so slow. How are you still on the sprinkler system?”

“Hey!” Lance exclaims, pointing the soaking rag towards Keith, who’s looking up at the metal piping that makes up the sprinklers. 

“That’s because I actually make sure it’s spotless, quality takes time, but that’s probably something you don’t know about, since you finished so quickly.” 

Snorting, Keith grabs a nearby rag and steps up onto the stool that Lance is standing on to reach the piping. He has to stand on his tiptoes to actually reach the metal, but he’s not too fussed. 

“I’m just an efficient person. Think smart, not hard, isn’t that the saying?”

Lance scoffs, returning to the stain that’s _finally_ started disappearing.

“Get your own stool, Mullet. I’m not sharing.”

“Nope,” Keith says, and wrings his rag of excess water. Pretending to be annoyed, Lance rolls his eyes, looking out of the corner of his eye to see Keith poking his tongue out only just so, in a sure sign of already being immersed into the work.

“You know, I’m beginning to think you like being tortured. The chamber sucks, you don’t have to subject yourself to it,” Lance says, unconsciously entranced by Keith’s dedication. When Keith side-eyes him, catching Lance in the middle of his staring, he almost falls off.

Carefully, and with all that attention now directed at him, Keith says, “I know,” smooth and sincere. “But that’s why I wanted to help,” he explains, and that’s just it, isn’t it? 

It’s always like this with them. They both don’t have to do the things they do, but if there was even the slightest chance that the other would be better off if they did, they’d do it in a heartbeat. 

Lance only hopes that his oceanside funeral will be recklessly expensive with most of his savings going to Hunk right after his own mother, of course. He’s dialling the funeral directors right now.

To worsen the sheer tidal wave of ( _and let’s spell it out again, L-O-V—_ ) appreciation that inundates him, Keith smiles. “That alright?”

Alright? Alright?! Fuck Lance sideways, he’s going to scream loud enough that the nearby planet would hear it. 

All that he replies with is an extremely terse “Yep.”

After that, silence falls on them as they finish cleaning the sprinklers to move onto the air vents, Keith completely oblivious to the gears running red hot in Lance’s mind. It’s quick work with Keith helping him, and in less than an hour, they’re already washing down the glass panels separating the actual chamber and the monitoring room. 

“Hey,” Keith starts, breaking the comfortable bubble of silence. Lance hums. “To make this quicker, why don’t we place a bet?”

Lance grins, falling easily into his competitive spirit. “Sure. You can decide the terms, it’s not like you’ll win anyway,” he says smugly, rubbing soapy circles into the glass.

“We’ll see. Let’s divide the area, you’re on this side, I’m on the other with the monitors. First to finish with the panel completely dry wins,” Keith says.

“Cool. I’m gonna wipe these panels the same way I’ll wipe you outta this bet. Brutally. What am I getting once I win?”

“No way you’re going to win this, you are literally the slowest cleaner ever,” Keith huffed a laugh. “Winner gets anything they want.”

“Uh, rain check — you already said I’d get everything from you, no bets included.”

The upwards twitch in Keith’s ‘scowl’ belies any actual annoyance he has at Lance’s light reminder.

“Fine. Let’s make it negative then. Loser has to get rid of the hazardous waste by themselves.”

“Dude, that’s literally the worst part of the chamber. Deal,” Lance says, and waits till Keith dragged his own bucket of water and soap over to the other side.

Signalling across the glass, 3, 2, 1 — start!

Instantly, it’s like the world’s worst car wash drive-through. Water goes _everywhere_ , racing down the glass, dribbling on the floor — both of them are definitely soaked to the bone now, and to top it off, the previously drying floors of the chamber are now slippery with adrenaline, water, and soap suds.

The competition isn’t going to end without their panel being dry, and by the looks of it, it seems they’ll be stuck here all day long. Attempts to distract each other with pulled faces and banging the wall to make the other flinch are poor, to say the least, but they don’t give it up.

It’s fifteen ticks in when Keith first realises that the winner can only claim victory when the panel is _dry_. Immediately, he stops sloshing water all over the screen and starts furiously rubbing, to the point where Lance can _hear_ it from the other side.

Lance grumbles under his breath. “Oh no you don’t!”

Still running soap on the last edge and realising that at the bulldozer rate Keith is going, there’s no way he’s going to win, he tries to do the natural thing: sabotage.

Lance grabs the bucket and hauls it out of the chamber, seeing Keith widen his eyes at the last second as he realises Lance’s intentions.

He doesn’t make it to the entrance. Keith stands there with his arms and feet outspread, clutching tightly at the frame to prevent a very determined Lance from breaking in and ruining all his work.

Trying to shove his way through the gaps, the bucket spills and spills and spills to the absolute disregard of both of them as Keith pushes Lance’s shoulder away. Undeterred, he attempts to bite at Keith’s arm to get him to let go. It’s unsuccessful, unstoppable force meets immovable object and all that.

“What the fuck! Who the fuck resorts to biting, you, argh —” Lance tries to kick his shins out and curses their steel-like nature, “— you damn toddler!” 

Says the half-Galran with actual fangs.

“Me, bitch,” Lance cheerfully yelps, and over half the bucket is on the ground now. At this rate, it’s not about the water, as Lance knees Keith in the groin. Yelling, he lets go of the bucket fully to double over, and it drops onto the hand of an unfortunate somebody when he tries to squirm his way through the gap between Keith’s legs instead.

Lance cries out in pain and stumbles over, and now they’re both on the wet ground in fetal positions.

“I hate you… so much,” Keith weakly groans.

“No you don’t.”

“Yes I do, cheater.”

“... I plead the fifth.”

“What? You can’t plead anything from a document that hasn’t been legal for centuries, what the hell?”

“Just did,” Lance so maturely replies, and finally twists up to see the mess they’ve made. Luckily, the water’s only licking the edges of the metal corridor, and none of the monitors inside are damaged.

Lying starfished on his back, Keith makes the image of sweet, sweet defeat. His shirt’s soaked through, sticking limply to his chest and stomach. Lance eyes it carefully and feels something in him go silent. Even with his hair, which is an awful mess without the water looks good, a few baby hairs curling around his cheekbone and neck like tiny black waves lapping at a cream shore.

Lance swallows around a dry throat, and to whisk the thought away, he stares at his stubbed fingers, already turning a deep purple. _At least the fingernails didn’t break_ , Lance tries to think positively. He’ll definitely need to treat it soon or else he won’t be able to shoot.

“Let’s get to the med bay,” Keith’s voice suddenly comes, and he lets himself be hauled up as Keith makes sure not to touch the bruised hand.

* * *

_He’s one of the best people I know. Always giving, giving, giving, and expecting nothing in return. I’m so glad that I’ve gotten to know him. He’s inspiring me to be a better person every day._

* * *

“Shit,” Lance curses, stopping midway to the bay. Keith looks to him, a shade of protective anxiousness coming over him. 

“Did you get hurt somewhere else?”

“No, but I won’t be able to clean up the hazards,” he sighs in regret, looking back towards the chamber. 

“Wait, what? You’re worried about cleaning the chamber?”

Keith seems suspended in disbelief, but Lance doesn’t get why. He didn’t finish his chores and now he won’t get to because of the hand. Dumping the contaminants is definitely a two-handed job. Wondering if Coran will let him finish it tomorrow and push back any planetary visits since the chamber won’t be ready, he remembers briefly to answer Keith’s question.

“Yeah?”

His affirmation, even if confused, doesn’t seem to erase the shock on Keith’s face, his slightly widened eyes catching the light of the overheads. Stars and black diamonds. 

Laughing awkwardly, Lance snaps the fingers of his good hand in front of Keith’s face. 

“You good, Red?” 

“Uh, yeah. Yup, let’s just head off,” Keith waves off, muttering something under his breath that Lance can’t catch. 

“Okay, but you don’t seem good. Maybe you need the med bay aid more than I do,” he lightheartedly jabs, and they do their usual rolling eyes and bickering combo all the way there.

Once in the bay, Keith is adamant on making Lance sit on the examination table even though it’s only a bruise. He roots around the stock of various ointments that soothe (and sometimes worsen, you never know with Altean medicine) injuries and pulls out a jar with a purple cap, perfectly fitted to the colour that’s now bloomed across Lance’s aching fingers.

Lance reaches out for the jar, but before he can even touch it, Keith swiftly moves it out of his reach. 

“Hey!”

“Nope. I’m helping you. How were you going to open it, genius?” Keith says in his odd way of offering his assistance. He unscrews the cap and puts the jar aside on the table, hopping on as well. 

Lance swings his dangling legs back and forth, and shifts backwards to accommodate for Keith. “Uhh, with my telepathic powers, duh.”

“Don’t you mean telekinetic?”

He watches as Keith goes to unpeel his gloves from his skin, and is honestly surprised that he doesn’t have a cursed fingerless-gloves-tan until he remembers that they barely get any sunlight out here in space. _It’s strange_ , Lance thinks. _I thought his hands would be rough_. His fingers sure don’t look rough — they’re not fine porcelain by any means, but even the way they move looks smooth. Like a white stallion galloping through the woods, strong and graceful. The only thing that makes them less ethereal are the slightly chewed fingernails, likely due to bad habits and stress.

_God, not the hands again. Why is it always them?_

“Hmm?” Lance says, distractedly.

“Telekinesis? You know, the power that actually allows you to move objects with your mind? Telepathy means you would be speaking to the jar, Lance.”

“That’s what I said, Keithy boy.”

“Sure,” Keith concedes, now that he’s focused on dipping his fingers into the ointment. 

Suddenly, Lance realises what he’s doing. 

“Wait, I can do it myself, don’t worry about it,” he hastily says, reaching out again with his good hand. Without hesitation, Keith brushes the hand away with his arm and gently goes in to take Lance’s injured hand into his lap.

“I know,” Keith says, and it’s almost like a mantra now for how often he says it these days. To be known. What a scary scare-less beauty. To be known, to have Keith look him in the eye, and say _I get you. I know you,_ and have to sit there and accept it all. “Let me do it,” is all he asks.

Roughly, and not even sure if he says it out loud until Keith beams and leans in, Lance thinks, _of course. Thank you._

His head is bowed, almost careening into Lance’s shoulder. Lance can faintly smell the calming scent of generic shampoo that the castle stocks as well as _boy_ off of Keith’s twilight hair. Their knees are touching, but it’s more Keith’s concentration that makes the silent feeling from before take root in his body. 

He’s tethered, but only to one thing, and that thing, that feeling, that sensation, burns into the skin where Keith’s palms and fingertips are touching. 

Rubbing slow circles of the ointment into Lance’s bruise and occasionally apologising whenever Lance makes even the slightest of winces, the burning feels distinct. Keith’s dedication feels distinct. Lance might be burning, gone blank except for how something in him keeps aligning, but it doesn’t feel like he’s being burnt at all. 

Not with the way Keith lingers around the purpling, hands still ever so steady from a culmination of practice and longing to make this as painless as possible for Lance. When the bruise has been completely covered, he doesn’t pull back. 

He just lets Lance’s hand rest on his bare palm.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” Lance says, reverting back to his one-word answers. He can’t really fathom what to do, what to say, what to feel anymore. His hand feels tingly, and he’s not sure if it’s from the ointment or the contact.

“Hey,” Keith says, concerned again, and the way he says it feels contained, like they’re in a bubble for themselves. “You should lie down, you don’t look so good.”

“Okay,” Lance says, and he doesn’t feel drained, but if something, _something_ and Lance doesn’t know what — happens, he’ll implode, or ascend. Both? Both. His nerves are alight, but he’s also tired, weirdly enough.

He’s so wrapped up in his muddle of thoughts that he doesn’t even realise that he’s back in his room until the door hisses quietly behind him. Too tired to do anything else, he goes to sleep immediately, resting his bruised and rapidly healing hand above the blanket so as to not hurt it.

* * *

_I’d wish you’d been here to see him get here, like I did. And maybe see me too, grow with him. With him, things feel inevitable and endless. I’ve touched the stars because of him, Ma._

* * *

Lance wakes up feeling just a little on the side of groggy but much less tired. He checks the time on the glowing letters etched into the table beside him. The knife isn’t there anymore, but that’s only because he put it away for safekeeping.

It’s past dinner, so he heads to the kitchen, knowing Hunk would’ve wrapped up the leftovers for him.

Yawning as he enters the kitchen and sits at the stool near the counter, he bids hello to Coran, who’s on washing duty for today. The dish in front of him is still warm, thankfully.

“Oh yeah. Coran, can we reschedule any visits to unknown planets tomorrow? I was meant to finish cleaning the chamber, but uhh,” instead of explaining verbally, he just waves his hand up for Coran to see, where the bruise has already started to become yellow. By the next morning, it’ll be gone.

Instead of just answering him outright, Coran pauses, looking perplexed.

“Lance, boy, have you forgotten? Are you sure you weren’t hit over the head by the trunk of a Ghrodian-Fentickle? You’ve already finished cleaning. I passed by it earlier, it’s absolutely spotless,” Coran reminds him.

“I did?” He pauses mid-bite of the Ipearin rice. No he didn’t. Unless —

Oh.

“Oh yeah, I did,” Lance quickly answers, and if it’s higher-pitched he’s thankful that Coran won’t go into another session of asking about the strange capabilities (or lack thereof) of human voice boxes. He quickly finishes off the rice and hands the plate to Coran. 

_So Keith finished cleaning the chamber. He didn’t have to, but he did._

Even though Keith had said he wouldn’t, he’d done it anyways. Even when the whole reason that Lance became injured was that he was childishly cheating at a bet. He really was selfless, though he’d probably just say it was his responsibility if told so. 

Selflessness, Lance ponders. The way the word was made, you would think that it meant the loss of self, to lose oneself, to undo the threads that weave your soul. But to be selfless is anything but self-less. It is never the lack of self, in fact, in the act of considering others and offering yourself for the help of others, it reveals great truths and depth of your own being. To be selfless is to be full of self.

Keith is no exception. He’d toned down his martyrship by an enormous degree after the team had relentlessly beaten it into him with words of affirmation and long, warm, hugs, but his selflessness still retained in ways that left Lance buoyant, floating. Rooted in nothing except that burning, soothing _something_.

When he said he’d give Lance everything, it seemed at first a drunken joke and mishap, but then the postcards came pressed into his hands. And then his own hands, to heal Lance’s pain, even if it was just a bruise. Everything. 

Lance holds his breath. How far does everything go? More than that, will he be able to survive after it all. He’s barely held on, even now.

What then?

_What then?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the late update! had to get through my brain rot and rework the plot bc my brain suddenly remembered the classic person a got injured and person b patches them up trope and i HAD to put it in
> 
> ily, tysm for reading <3
> 
> [my tumblr!](https://myssyx.tumblr.com/)  
> 


	4. baby, don't you wanna see how far this thing can go?

Lance curses as he cuts down a thrashing vine of the encroaching jungle surrounding them, the team not far behind him.

He yells back as loud as his voice can carry because in the steep darkness the jungle was perpetually plunged in, attributed to the lack of suns nearby, it’s one of the only things they can rely on. 

“How far do we have, Pidge?”

“About a few hundred metres,” the yell comes, and they all pump their fists and cheer. They’ve been trekking for the better part of three vargas just to get to the Riy-ulhian courts, no thanks to the non-existence of a footpath and clear directions from the council. It’s to ensure the protection of the environment and also secrecy from the Galra, they get it, they really do, but it does tire them out sometimes.

 _All in the name of saving the universe_ , Lance supposes, then promptly trips over a bioluminescent root. He’s got a mouthful of the strange glowing leaves underfoot and some missing dignity, but what’s new?

Behind him, Lance can definitely pick out Keith’s low and mocking laugh from Allura’s uninhibited snorts.

“If this is the kind of repayment I get for being a saviour of the universe, then I don’t want to do it anymore,” he groans, and makes a big hassle when Hunk comes and lifts him off the ground easily. “Yes you do,” Hunk says, half chuckling, and Lance dusts himself off. 

“Maybe I’ll just become one of those trinket sellers on those mega-mall planets,” he thinks out loud, and casually cuts through the thrashing vine of another nearby plant. 

Pidge, ever the lover of hypotheticals, entertains this thread of thought. “What would you sell?”

“Hmm, oh my god, I could sell those tiny Voltron figurines, especially cos’ I know what’s actually accurate _and_ I’m an actual paladin.”

“Boo, you whore, that’s so boring, there’re already thousands of Voltron merchandise sellers,” Pidge complains.

“Hey, I’d be a great seller — I used to work part-time at the fruit grocer’s all the time, used to reel all those aunties in with my great deals,” he mimics the motion of a lasso — not that anyone can see in the dark.

Honestly, they can all envisage it — Lance with a smile bright enough to rival a star, perched upon a metal crate under the pouring heat of the Cuban sun. He’s foregone the broad brim hat the store’s issued him, and the result is an effortless perm to his brown curls, enough to make the local abuelitas jealous. 

Paying no attention to the sweat along his outstretched bare arms, he yells out to the street, “Get your rehydrated pears right here! Three for two, but be quick, the deal’s not going to last! Unlike your beauty, ma’am,” he directs to a passing grandma, who blushes and then pauses to peer at the fruit selection, which is exactly what he was aiming for. 

“No aunty is going to want to buy some dinky figurine set of Voltron,” Keith rebuts, and Allura grumbles. “You’d be surprised,” she offers cryptically, and Pidge sucks in an audibly shocked breath of laughter.

“No way!"

“Yes way, unfortunately. When Voltron was first created, the amount of merchandise created was unbelievable — it created its own market, essentially. You didn’t want to be caught in an auction for a limited edition action figure touched by King Alfor himself; it was worse than court on its bad days,” she recalls, shaking her head fondly.

“Of course, none of them were actually touched by him. He never approved of these sorts of things, but I do have to say that my insult vocabulary dramatically improved by observing some of those auctions,” Allura admits, and the whole team pretends to be aghast at the ‘uncouthness’ of the princess. 

“You have got to teach me some of these insults,” Lance says, half-joking, because it gets tiring calling atrociously out-of-touch alien politicians “sacks of flaming shit on a stick”. He’s got to get more creative with his vitriol!

Up ahead, the jungle thins out, a sure sign that they’re nearing their destination. 

“As long as you don’t use them inappropriately,” Allura says, teasing him, and they all laugh, knowing full well that back at the castle they’ve got a tally board labelled _‘How many times Lance (rightfully) insults a dickhead diplomat’_. 

“Me? Never,” Lance responds, chuckling.

Out of the blue, a small gurgling warble sounds out. Instinctually, all of them fall into their battle-ready positions, the neon blue of their bayards igniting and blending into the bioluminescent foliage.

“In front,” a croaking voice says.

“Oh! My bad,” Lance quickly recovers, letting go of the trigger as the bayard dissolves in a cloud of light. He kneels down to meet the being. “Sincerest apologies.”

They’re the perfect description of a Riy-ulhi. Thigh height, with green luminescent veins dancing underneath their damp purple skin. All five eyes on their face blink slowly at Lance once, and then two short blinks follow.

Lance returns the gesture, having read the database’s recommended formal greeting. Pleased, the Riy-ulhi warbles again, and then introduces themselves.

“My name is Ichlur. I will guide you to the Root, paladins,” it’s blunt, to the point, and exactly what the team needs. 

This time, only the centre eyeball moves, staring at Lance in his black armour. “I presume you are the leader,” they say, and nearby Keith’s disinterested resting face brightens up at Ichlur’s words. 

“Good assumption,” Lance replies, and here he would wink but he doesn’t want Ichlur and their five eyes to take it the wrong way. “I’m Lance, Paladin of the Black Lion,” he starts off, and then the rest of them do their usual sound offs. Ichlur blinks slowly in acknowledgement, then turns around and heads deeper into the jungle.

Even though it’s clear that they’re slowing down so that the paladins can catch up, the humbling expertise with which Ichlur picks their way through the long stalks, hanging vines, and blurring foliage shows itself. It also helps that they have six limbs: two arms for holding, middle two for grappling, and the legs to propel them in whichever direction they choose.

Reaching the Root, which roughly refers to the Riy-ulhian courts and surroundings, takes far less time than they thought it would. And it’s —

“Woah.” Lance sucks in a breath, mesmerised. _Holy shit_.

It’s the kind of sight that once seen, makes you wonder, _how in hell’s holy name did I miss it_? Surely they would’ve seen this peeking out from the canopy when they were flying over.

It’s a beacon of phosphorescence, simply put. 

The domed tower is the mother of all natural braids, vines and eager branches twisting around each other in an intricate dance. There’s no clear rhyme or rhythm to the order of the vines, but Lance is sure Pidge could find one. In the nooks and crannies of the Root where the flowers have yet to reach, various creatures and critters make their homes. All over like a never ending dance, veins of phosphorescence glow, jump, and spin their way around, pure white.

Ichlur warbles again, and then gestures proudly to the tower. “The Root breathes. It lives, just as the rest of us. Any harm to the Root will incur the wrath of the Riy and judgement by the council,” they dictate solemnly.

Blinking back in acknowledgement, the team stand there and openly take in the stretch of flowers, branches, and even small critters that have taken habitat on the Root. They don’t take another step forward, waiting to be invited past the threshold as per database advice. 

Making the same pleased sound they did before, Ichlur presses their top and middle arms on the large gates, and instead of them opening out, the vines glow and shrink back until there’s enough space for all of them to walk through.

Pidge is sure to be bursting with questions already, and a sideways glance confirms it. Lance looks towards Keith besides him and just manages to hold back his exasperated sigh. When they walk through the grand hallway to the council’s court, he pinches Keith sharply through the bodysuit which earns him a hiss and a dirty glare.

Keith whispers seethingly through his teeth. “What the hell was that for!” 

“You need to look more alive! The Riy’uhli are gonna take it the wrong way and crucify you if you look this miserable in their sacred courts,” Lance reminds him with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh my god. It’s literally just my resting face,” Keith deadpans. 

“Exactly. Hate to break it to ya, but you’ve got the world’s — uhh, galaxy’s worst case of resting bitch face,” Lance says, and just to annoy him, he taps the side of Keith’s scowl. It successfully gets Keith to narrow his eyes, which would be menacing, but his pout kinda detracts from the fear factor.

And then, well — Lance just about has a heart attack right there in the hallway. 

Keith gives him a smile that’s more stunning than the non-lethal mechanism of his rifle in a flash, and it’s so big that it pushes at his dimples. Dimples! And actually, they aren’t the worst part. Since it’s done solely to spite Lance, his annoyance shows through his bared fangs, gleaming white and sharp and barely skimming his full bottom lip. 

Okay, where’s the paramedic? Reporting an unhealthy and unusual (well, maybe pretty normal around Keith, let’s be honest) patch of red emerging on Lance’s cheeks and neck. His blinding grin is gone in a split second, but the effect is instantaneous. 

Nearby and unbeknownst to Lance’s sudden cardiac arrest, Allura compliments the design scheme of the floor, which is made entirely of colour-coordinated flowers and vines.

Keith grumbles, having (thankfully) returned to his dead eyes and semi-frown. “That what you want?”

Lance rushes to get Keith never to do that again lest he wants to collapse. “Nope. Nah, what you had was fine. It was fine! Absolutely fine,” he blurts out, completely panicked.

“Good,” Keith replies, seemingly smug but probably because he thought Lance felt threatened by the smile. Which is true, but _how_ he was threatened is another matter.

Up ahead, Ichlur stops at another set of doors, and turns to face them. “All must place their palms on the doors. The vines will know your intent and decide whether or not to let you in. If you have corrupt desires, the Riy will know,” they caution.

Lance is glad the nature of their sacred tests were simple — that means that they can offer help much quicker.

Brushing shoulders with Keith, they all nod solemnly and step up in a cramped line to face the green vinery, palms up.

Ticks pass slowly.

Then a whole dobosh.

Still, nothing happens.

“Um,” said Hunk, voicing all of the team’s confusion. “I swear we don’t have any corrupt desires. We really want to help you guys, honest.”

Ichlur warbles lowly. 

“Do not fear. The Riy is careful with its judgement and will take its time.”

True to their word, after a few more ticks, a warmth starts to emanate from beneath their palms, slowly enveloping their hands in a glowing circle of heat and light. Chirruping their happiness, Ichlur congratulates them on their goodwill.

The light becomes holes, soon expanding enough that they all can step through. Pidge mutters under their breath about contacting Ryner.

Ichlur extends their arm towards the centre of the room, where an arched fallen branch serves as a table, orange-rind shaped. Five Riy-uhlis sit on rocks that jut out from the floor, silent and unblinking. Phosphorescence pours from lanterns on the walls, lighting up the tall court.

“The council will now receive you. Heed their words.”

Lance slowly blinks his gratitude back and with that, Ichlur shuffles back next to the door.

“Paladins, welcome to the Root,” the middle and tallest Riy-uhli croaks out. Around their neck are five necklaces adorned with various fangs and sharp teeth. “I am Jihvu, head of council. Thank you for arriving so soon on our urgent requests.”

Lance steps forward. Long blink, two slow blinks. He’s got this, if the pleased trill from the council members is anything to go by. Number one rule of alien (or really, anything, really) diplomacy: respect and learn their culture. 

“It’s an absolute honour to assist you. What can we do for you, Jihvu?”

“We fear that an invasion from the Galra is imminent. Our planet is home to a resource that they wish to use — the Nyxis, which I believe is more commonly known as phosphorescence. It has many uses, the main of course being light, which they needn’t pillage our planet for seeing as they are nocturnal creatures, but rather a second more potent use: healing. It is abundant with quintessence and has been used for millenia for medicinal cures here on Riy-uhlia.”

At the mention of quintessence, everyone straightens up even more. If there’s one thing that power-hungry Galra generals wanted more than riches and a long legacy of sickeningly hedonistic war crimes, it was quintessence.

“How long have you been aware of this threat?”

Ironically, the less time they’ve had to be alarmed by the looming Galra, usually the better. It means less time for preparations for the paladins, but also the Galra themselves.

With his careful eyes, Lance tracks the uneasy glances that the council members give each other, as if standing on a precipice they wish to not cross and waiting for someone else to go first. Internally, he winces. Unsureness or shame have made plenty a hole in their battle plans before, and it looks like this time won’t be any different.

The Riy-uhli to the right of Jihvu speaks up, differentiated by a large scar on the bottom of their chin. “Two phoebs.”

Behind him, he catches a muffled curse from Keith, and has to agree.

Chin-scar stares right at Lance this time, central eyeball focusing. “We have known for two phoebs. We would have contacted you earlier, but we were unsure whether or not the legends were true. Technology also has been an issue — we secured contact with the neighbouring planet only a phoeb ago and they kindly gave us holoscreens for communication.”

Lance smothers his grimace poorly, and the council look on in varying degrees of panic.

“I would just like to ask, who are your neighbours? If we contact them, we may be able to protect your planet better.” 

Jihvu explains.

Their neighbours, the Yurros, are gem exporters, and any planet that is known for trading surely has adequate resources. Almost facing a similar invasion from the Galra only a decaphoeb ago, they have vast experience in managing threats. Across the universe, planetary defences vary greatly, some having impressive armies enough to rival the population of Earth, and others like Riy-uhlia have the benefit of an unstable and mostly inhabitable terrain. 

But the Galran Empire have had their claws in this cruel war for over ten thousand years. 

Over time, the paladins learn to sharpen their own claws; they learn to take no chances and never underestimate the value of willpower.

Weighing what needs to be done to prepare for the imminent attack, Lance quickly divides the roles needed to be completed.

“Allura, my diplomat princess, could you start conference calling the Yurros to see what kind of weapons and other resources they have?” 

“Of course.”

“Pidge, Hunk.”

“Yup, we’re on it,” Pidge has already pulled out a specimens tube and their tablet, and almost walks out on their own accord until Hunk grabs their arm, hastily remembering the Riy-uhlis' conduct. “We’ll get to looking at this Nyxis more closely asap.” They both mutter their apologies to Ichlur, who stands by the door looking straight ahead, apparently missing the fumble.

“Thanks,” Lance says, trying not to laugh.

Everyone knows that this part of handling inter-galactic affairs is the worst for impulsive Keith, especially Lance, having been on the receiving end of many rants and complaint sessions before, but — well, shit’s gotta get done. 

“Keith… you’re with me. We can map out placements of lions and geography.”

Surprisingly without much grumbling (or at least visibly), Keith curtly nods. 

Turning back to the council, Lance places a fresh smile on. Clearly pleased with the rapid action and Lance’s straightforwardness, they all send him and the team slow blinks.

Nice. It’s always cool when aliens appreciate how much effort it takes to defend and protect their planet, even if they’d do it with incessant complaints.

Suddenly, Keith’s stomach lets out an ungodly growl, prompting everyone to turn to him.

“Uhh…”

Lance sighs in exasperation. The aliens look startled, and Chin-Scar reaches for a sharpened staff they somehow produce from nowhere. Allura pacifies them, trademark strained smile in place. Whether or not she’s going to scold Keith later on his poor eating habits or trying not to giggle is an age-old question Lance has never been able to answer. Probably both, considering it’s _Allura_.

“Keith.” Lance wants to rub his temples so badly. He settles for raising an eyebrow. “You forgot to eat after training, didn’t you.”

“... Yeah.”

“Hey, Jihvu, if it’s not too much to ask for, _one_ of our paladins has forgotten to eat for _the thousandth time_ even though _I always tell him to_ , so is there any possibility of us being able to enjoy your delicious cuisine?”

Keith looks a mixture of sheepish guilt and wanting to roll his eyes.

Not catching any of the sarcasm, the council members all brighten up.

“Of course, Black Paladin! Anything to thank you all for aiding us.”

“Thank _you_.” 

* * *

_When you meet him, I think you’ll understand instantly. He_ _~~might~~ _ _will be super awkward when you first meet, but he’s without a doubt the most genuine person I know who never says anything he doesn’t mean._

* * *

Since the Riy-uhlis don’t have proper accommodation, they manage most operations on the castle. For the next few days, it’s all go go go.

Allura has trouble with the Yurros, but in a completely different way than they expected. Instead of being standoffish, they’re almost _too_ responsive, calculating details and weaponry needs down to the poisoned barbs they’ve somehow managed to stick on their bombs. It’s insane. She goes in and out of meetings with way too many notes, but Coran seems to be handling it just fine. Better safe than sorry, they all suppose, but Hunk silently heaps on extra servings on her plate whenever she can be pulled away from the holoscreens.

With guidance from Ichlur, Pidge and Hunk figure out the ins and outs of the Nyxis, and especially where it’s most abundant. Unfortunately, it’s right where the capital is — there’s a reason why the Riy-uhlis built the Root there for a reason. Security tightens up around the courts.

And Lance and Keith? Well, let’s just say it’s been frustrating, though mostly for Lance and his need to perfect the plans on the day. 

In the control room, Lance scribbles down another possible combination of where to place the lions so that the planet is best defended. Coran walked by earlier and remarked that it looked like an Ervang hurricane came hurtling through and Lance may not have any clue what the fuck an Ervang hurricane is, but judging by the mess of papers and holograms of the planet he has thrown around, he can guess.

“Lance.”

Hmm. What if he moves Green to near the ravine? She’s small enough, and — nope, too rocky and her vines could get tangled… actually, maybe if he —

“Lance!” 

A waving hand in front of his head brings him back. 

“Keith? What the fuck, dude, you almost scared the living daylights out of me. What gives?”

Leaning over the table, Keith gives him an are-you-for-real look. The ends of his hair are still wet, shiny black and curling up more than usual. Lance directs his gaze to his eyes, which probably isn’t the best decision he’s made all day.

“You need to go to bed.”

Wow, Keith telling _Lance_ to go to bed? Now _that’s_ a real mind fuck. It also means it must be extremely late if Keith is freshly showered from his evening training. 

“Yeah, yeah, I just gotta finalise these positions,” Lance mumbles distractedly, looking at the tiny movable figurines of the lions that they initially bought for jokes before realising how useful they were. “What do you think about what I’ve got right now?”

Keith has his analytical stare on right now, sharp as steel.

“It’s good, but maybe move Yellow further away from the deep rainforest areas? He could damage the area a lot, even if he’s best for heavy-duty defence.”

“Huh. Not a bad idea, Red. I was only thinking about what areas most needed defence, but I forget that we do rough it up quite a bit.”

Keith hums, but doesn’t lean back away from Lance. It’s like he doesn’t even notice it, or worse (better?), he doesn’t mind it at all. 

Which, uh. 

Not good for Lance’s health. He’s mentioned this already, hasn’t he?

“Okay, that’s enough for now.”

Lance relaxes. Maybe he’ll move away now — and he’s leaning in even closer, _excellent_.

“You have to go to bed. We can figure this out tomorrow, yeah?”

His gaze is searching, small smile still tilted and pressing at that _one dimple_ and his voice is also softer, dimmed by the quiet of the castle around them and the blanket of night.

Indignant offence already bubbling up his throat, Lance wants to argue, but before he can even say anything, Keith places a hand on his shoulder. 

Bastard probably thinks it’s a soothing gesture, and it usually would be, well, except he’s himself. Unbeknownst to him, Lance’s heart starts to speed up.

“Hey. It’s really late. You’ve done a lot already. Seriously, I can’t believe I’m the one telling _you_ to go to sleep.”

“Okay, okay, fine, but I still gotta figure out where to put Black. When I figure it out, I’ll knock out for the day.”

Keith looks highly suspicious, but they both know that their infamous arguments can last for eons. Thank god it’s mostly over each other’s wellbeing now.

He huffs a sigh. “Fine. But I’m making you a cup of tea. And I’m staying with you till you’re done. Nope. No buts or ifs. If the team leader’s gonna stay up late, I’m going to too, alright? This is better anyways.”

Feeling his first tired smile of the day after all this gruelling jumble of formations and battle strategies, Lance gives in and thanks him, settling back down in his chair.

A while later Keith returns, piping hot teacup in hand. He even brought one of Hunk’s biscuits, the thoughtful dickhead.

Lance mumbles out another word of gratitude and sips the tea. It’s his favourite flavour, notes of not-mango mixed with another alien fruit.

He wonders if Keith knew, and is just about to ask until his words die on his tongue, looking up to see Keith doused in soft light, hand on his cheek as he thinks about something Lance can’t fathom. He looks so relaxed, something straight out of a loved painting. It’s something he doesn’t want to break into.

It was probably a lucky coincidence he got Lance’s favourite flavour anyways.

Lance thinks about lions and jungles and glowing plants instead.

The last thing that he really registers is something impossibly warm and familiar being placed on his back, like a warm patch of sunlight. He hasn’t felt real sun in ages. The lightest brush to the crown of his head, maybe a breeze from the beach saying goodbye. 

Varadero is beautiful, he dreams. Absolutely beautiful. 

* * *

_Sometimes, Keith’s honesty scares me. Not because he would deliberately hurt me (I know you’re worried but he never would) but anytime that he tells me something, I know it’s true for him. I can trust what he says, and it’s kind of silly that I’m scared of that, but I am. He means a lot to me._

* * *

In the morning, it’s not Allura’s automated wake-up call that gets him up, but rather a hurried jostle to his arm.

“Wha, what the fuck?”

“Lance!” 

It’s Keith, tugging on his arm sharply and he immediately thinks, oh no, the Galra have come early, shit —

Seeing the panic on his face, Keith curses and immediately switches to running calming strokes down his arm.

“Sorry, I got too excited.”

Excited? For what? 

“It’s raining, Lance! It’s really raining outside!”

At the mention of water, Lance bolts up and lets himself get tugged by Keith outside into a clearing. He’s still waking up, but strangely enough it’s not the patter of real rain that he can hear playing drums on the castle that jolts him into consciousness. It’s Keith’s contagious enthusiasm.

Lance grins, letting loose a laugh that fills his ribcage with glee. He can only see the edge of Keith’s smile, but hearing his unfettered laughter is all he needs, and then some.

They reach the clearing outside, and it’s gloriously drizzling. 

Real rain. Real, falling, wondrous rain.

For a while, Lance is speechless. He can feel Keith watching him, trying to see what kind of reaction he has, like when people give presents to their loved ones, but all is good. 

Palms up, the rain _splats_ fat droplets of almost-water on his skin, bouncing off and collecting in the creases of his hands. It’s perfect.

He tips his head back and closes his eyes to feel the twin run wild over his face. With the rain sliding down his body, it’s like the Earth is kissing him every single time a droplet hits his skin. By now, he’s soaked to the bone, but he’s not freezing yet. He’s lucky he brought his jacket with him.

Wait — he wasn’t wearing a jacket in the control room. What? He looks down and sees the sleeves of Keith’s red and yellow jacket tied around like a shawl, and gasps.

Shooting a panicked look at Keith, he’s met with the steady and somehow pleased stare of Keith already looking back, like he always seems to be doing.

“Your jacket! It’s getting soaked!”

“Yeah, I know. Are you warm?”

“Am I — don’t you mind? Your signature piece de resistance, completely wet via alien rain?”

“No,” Keith answers easily. “Are you warm?” he repeats again, like that’s the part Lance is struggling with.

“Uh — yeah I am, but aren’t you —”

“— Good.”

Lance’s mouth snaps shut, letting the rain race down his throat.

It’s almost hysterical, the way that Keith is still smiling happily at him like he’s done nothing at all that would make his head spin. The way that this planet has rain out of all the amazing phenomenons of nature they could have. It’s utterly hysterical, and Lance just can’t help but laugh.

Catching his laughter, Keith starts up again, cheerfully unbridled. And then they’re just two stupid boys, laughing in the rain of an alien planet, at absolutely nothing, but maybe, just maybe at something even more important: how much they care for each other.

Because, Lance realises, Keith doesn’t usually get this excited. Not even with cool knives and getting out of diplomacy. And he’s excited about rain, of all things. Sure, everyone likes rain.

But no one loves it as much as Lance does, and Keith _knows_ this, knows how much it means to Lance, how every droplet contains a muted memory of _home_. 

Lance can figure it out.

Keith’s happy because he knew that this would make Lance happy, he woke up to rain and the first thing that he thought of was that _Lance might like this_.

Keith dragged him out for _him_.

God, Lance loves him so much.

He almost chokes on his next round of laughter.

Love?

_Love?_

(L-O-V-E, and the word finally lets itself be spelt.)

_Oh._

Holy fucking shit.

Standing there, draped in the rain and Keith’s jacket, laughing up their own private storm in the middle of another one, Lance lets himself think it for the first time. He doesn’t let himself shut the gate to the rush, to the thoughts like he always does.

Love.

He’s in love with Keith Kogane.

Keith’s hair is equally soaked and clinging to his neck and forehead, but his smile is so wide and his eyes are crinkled with happiness and his whole body is a story that Lance just discovered why he’s so attached to it.

And if he’s willing to place a bet — Mama always said that for all his brains, he could never be a good gambler — that Keith may just feel something similar back, he thinks that his chances might just be in his favour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew!! happy 2021, folks! another year to kick-ing <3\. sorry for the slow update lol a local botch had to and is still getting their shit together. honestly I'm most excited for the next chapter so.... c u then!!!

**Author's Note:**

> >:) you'd think that if someone told you that they'd give you everything that they're in love with you but lance is on a river in egypt. why r the gays (well bi in this case) like this. why do we do this to ourselves
> 
> n e ways c u later <3
> 
> kudos/comments are greatly appreciated and will def motivate me to write quicker!


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